


Two Truths and No Lies: A Christmas Interlude

by wendymr



Series: Christmas Capers in Ringstead [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Drunken Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:16:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2853839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Now, it’s nothing to worry about. He’s just had a bit of an accident.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Truths and No Lies: A Christmas Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> To the members of the Lewis fandom, to wish you all a very merry Christmas.
> 
> With many, many thanks to Divingforstones for excellent beta-reading and encouragement skills, and in hope that the crackfic sequel will soon materialise ;)

“Sir? I just saw the rota for next week. I’m off-rota on Sunday and Monday, and then off-duty for Christmas Day and Boxing Day. That can’t be right!”

“Course it’s right.” Robbie glances up from perusing his emails. “You’ve worked four out of the last five Christmases. Time you got the days off.”

“Yes, but—” James frowns. “What about you?”

“I’ve got Christmas and Boxing Day too. Thought I might go up to Manchester — little Jack’ll have grown loads since I saw him last.”

“But the days I’m off-rota?”

“Got reports to finish. An’ no, I don’t need your help with them, Sergeant. When’d you last have a holiday? Go on, get yourself away from Oxford. Visit some friends, or go somewhere nice. I don’t want to see hide nor hair of you until the 27th, and then properly rested, y’hear?”

There’s a flash of hurt in James’s eyes, which Robbie ruthlessly forces himself to ignore. The lad needs a proper break. It’s been a bloody difficult few months; it’ll be a long time before Robbie can rid his mind of the haunted look on James’s face after they’d finally arrested Bob Massey. Whether it was that the homeless boy Silas had got to James somehow, or there was something else going on of which Robbie was ignorant — which wouldn’t surprise him; James, even after all these years, doesn’t talk about himself — the bloke was in a bad way. And they’d been straight into the next major case a few days later.

“Go on,” he adds, allowing a softer note to creep into his voice. “It’ll do you good. I’ll even let you bring me back a souvenir, all right?”

A very faint adjustment in the set of James’s shoulders tells him that his sergeant has reluctantly accepted his marching orders — just as well, as Robbie has no idea what he’d have done if James had refused. He can arrange the man’s off-duty, to some degree; he has no say over what James actually does with that off-duty time. 

“A stick of rock, sir. Duly noted.” And James returns to his desk, and work takes over.

* * *

Robbie twists his wrist to look at his watch, and groans. Barely ten minutes later than the last time he looked.

It’s tedious as hell here this morning. Quiet as the grave, and he’s never known a set of reports to be more tiresome. And no-one to bring him coffee, or relieve the monotony with a string of smartarse remarks. 

Hathaway’d left at dead on five the day before yesterday, pausing in the doorway to wish Robbie, very sincerely, a happy Christmas with Lyn. He’d confirmed that he was going away himself, though he hadn’t said where. They had agreed, though, that they’d meet for a drink once they were both back in Oxford, and they’d exchange presents then. He’d wanted, as James had stood there, to ask the lad to go for a drink there and then, but James had seemed in some sort of a hurry to get away. So he’d left it.

Ah well. Maybe he’ll phone the bloke this evening, wish him a good Christmas. Right now, though, he’s just got to fill in another three hours or so, and then he can make an early start on the drive to Manchester.

His mobile rings. Glad of the distraction, he picks it up. The caller ID tells him that it’s Dorset Police. Some sort of inter-force enquiry, he assumes, pressing the green button. “Yeah, DI Lewis.”

“Inspector Lewis, this is PC Weare, Weymouth Police. You know a DS James Hathaway, I believe?” 

Robbie’s heart stutters. “Yes. Yeah, I do. Is he all right?”

“Now, it’s nothing to worry about.” And Robbie well recognises police training in that reassurance, and he isn’t reassured at all. “He’s just had a bit of an accident.”

A bit of an accident — that’s left him unable to phone Robbie himself, always assuming he would, and that’s got the local police phoning instead. “What sort of accident?” He doesn’t bother hiding the edge in his voice.

“Well, seems he was out for a walk on the cliffs at Ringstead, an’ he saw someone bein’ mugged. According to the woman involved, he intervened. Stopped the mugger gettin’ away with the theft, but got himself pushed over the cliff for his trouble.”

Robbie can’t stop the gasp that escapes him. “No, no,” PC Weare says immediately. “Cliffs are shallow down there at Ringstead. Didn’t fall more than around fifteen feet. He’s at Weymouth General with suspected concussion, a sprained ankle and bruising. They found his warrant card while he was still unconscious, an’ your number’s on his phone. Hospital’s asked him for next-of-kin details — they don’t want to discharge him unless he’s got someone to keep an eye on him, because of the possible concussion — but he’s not being very co-operative. So — well, we were hoping you might know who to phone for him.”

“Weymouth General,” Robbie repeats, finding the British Rail website on his computer. If James has a sprained ankle, someone’s going to need to drive his car back. “Leave it with me,” he tells PC Weare. “Might be a few hours before someone’ll be with him, but if you can let them know at the hospital...?”

“Will do, sir. And if there’s anything else you need to know...”

Robbie thanks him, managing not to be too abrupt, and ends the call.

* * *

It’s snowing when he alights from the train at Weymouth and looks around for the taxi-rank. There’s already a couple of inches on the ground, and a conversation he overhears lets him know that there’s been a pile-up on the A35, as well as long tailbacks on the A37. Just as well he’s already phoned Lyn to let her know he won’t be coming for Christmas; at this rate, he won’t even be getting back to Oxford. 

He hears James before he sees him. James, clearly behind one of these curtains in A&E, is protesting irritatedly that he’s perfectly fine, he doesn’t need any help and if they don’t discharge him now he will leave of his own accord. Managing to identify the correct cubicle, Robbie pushes aside the curtain. “Causing trouble again, Sergeant? Can’t leave you alone for five minutes.”

“Sir!” James’s pale face is a picture of shock. “How—? They shouldn’t have bothered you!”

He could answer with a mocking comeback. It’s no doubt what James expects. But there are shadows around the lad’s eyes, and Robbie’s also pretty certain that, just for a moment, there was gladness along with the shock. “You think I wouldn’t want to know that you’ve been hurt?” 

Before James can answer, Robbie turns to the nurse James had been accosting with his ingratitude. “I’m his—” Governor, he almost says. “Friend,” he amends quickly. “Robbie Lewis. Is he ready to be discharged?”

The nurse, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and an understanding smile that says he’s seen it all before and more besides, smiles. “Almost. I just need to get his prescription from the doctor. Two minutes?”

“I don’t need a prescription,” James mutters, sliding off the bed and wincing as his left foot meets the floor. He’s dressed, Robbie notes, though one shoe is missing, and his coat is hanging over the end of the bed. 

“Yeah, you do.” Robbie offers James his arm, frowning as the lad appears unwilling to take it at first. “Don’t be so stubborn, soft lad.”

James is looking unhappy, as well as very uncomfortable. “It’s outrageous that they contacted you at all, let alone made you come all the way down here, sir. If anyone had bothered to _ask_ me, I’d have vetoed it.”

“Nobody _made_ me come, man. Was my choice. An’ you should’ve known I would.”

“It’s not your problem, sir. And you’re supposed to be on your way to Manchester—”

“Yeah, well, thought I’d just come here instead. Dorset’s supposed to be nice this time of year.” James clearly isn’t impressed by Robbie’s gentle mockery, so he adds, “Call it me revenge for you setting me up with your dentist last month.”

James’s mouth doesn’t even twitch. And Robbie can see the pink flush creeping up the lad’s neck. Not difficult to work out what the bloke’s obsessing about now.

“You haven’t ruined me Christmas, if that’s what’s bothering you,” he points out with deliberate gruffness. “Lyn told me yesterday her in-laws are coming for Christmas dinner. I wasn’t really looking forward to that, to be honest.”

“You don’t like them?” James’s frown is now all concern.

He shrugs. “Oh, they’re decent folk, all right. Just... it’s like they never forget I’m a copper. Gets downright embarrassing sometimes.” At James’s puzzled look, he explains. “If they’re not asking about cases they’ve read about in the news, they tell me all about stuff their neighbours’ve done an’ want to know if it’s a crime.”

“You’ve got _groupies_ , sir!” James exclaims, a broad grin spreading over his face. 

Robbie groans. “Not another word, y’hear? Anyway, you’ve spared me that this year.” He picks up James’s coat. “Right, let’s get that prescription of yours and get out of here. We’ll have to go and pick up your car an’ get back to where you’re staying before the snow gets much worse.”

James pulls a face. “The car’s out at Ringstead Bay.”

“No, it’s not.” The grey-haired nurse reappears, holding out a piece of paper — and a set of car keys. “The local police drove it here. Professional courtesy, I assume.” He smiles. “Merry Christmas.”

* * *

“So what brought you all the way to Weymouth? Seems like an odd place to come in December.”

“I’m staying in Ringstead, actually.” James shifts uncomfortably in the passenger seat. That ankle’s obviously hurting him more than he’s letting on, which means it’ll be a painful twenty minutes or so for him. Longer, if this snow gets any worse.

“Same question,” Robbie says. Keep him distracted; it’ll help.

There’s a pause, during which Robbie navigates the roundabouts to take him onto the coast road. Then, just as he thinks James isn’t answering, the lad does. “When I was a child, there was a painting on the wall in the living-room. Sloping cliffs and waves crashing on the shore. It looked so vivid... I used to dream about being on that beach. And I remember my mother telling me it was Ringstead Bay.”

Robbie has to work hard to keep his face expressionless. That’s the first time James has ever mentioned his mother. Or his childhood, other than the very brief reference when they were at Crevecoeur. “And is it as beautiful as you remembered?”

There’s another pause, followed by a quiet sigh. “It was sunny in the painting,” comes the softly-worded answer.

 _You poor sod_. “We’ll just have to come back in the summer, then.” He makes the offer without hesitation, wanting to wipe that disappointment away — and, as he says it, realises that he’d actually look forward to it, if James wanted.

For the next while, he has to concentrate on driving; the weather’s getting worse, and James is giving him directions. It doesn’t stop him thinking: where is James’s mother now? Why’s the bloke here on his own? Not that he’ll ask either of those questions. He won’t get answers.

As they reach the outskirts of Ringstead, it occurs to him to ask. “You stayin’ in a B&B? Hope they’ve got a vacancy.”

James shakes his head, and immediately winces. “I rented a cottage.”

Christ. So he wouldn’t even have company where he’s staying. “S’pose that makes things easy. I can just stay there with you.” James instantly frowns, and Robbie raises an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“No, no, of course you’ll stay there, sir. It’s just there’s only one bedroom.” James nods briefly. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“With possible concussion and a sprained ankle? You will not.”

“You can’t,” James says instantly. “I’m not having you hurt your back again.” 

“We’ll fight it out later, all right? Let’s just concentrate on getting inside first. An’ do I need to stop for any shopping?” Because he doesn’t fancy going out again later, and there’ll be nothing open tomorrow, it being Christmas Day and all. James was expecting to be on his own, of course.

“No, there’s enough.” James directs him to take the next left, and then left again, and they’re pulling into the driveway of a tiny one-storey cottage, which looks at least a hundred years old. It’s what Laura would call charming, but all Robbie hopes is that it’s got decent heating and the windows aren’t too draughty.

Why’d he have to get an idiot of a sergeant who thought it’d be a good idea to go the seaside at _Christmas_?

* * *

A few hours later, everything’s been sorted, they’ve eaten, and they’re sitting in front of a warm fire sipping tea, seasonal music from James’s iPod in the background. Robbie’s declared the double bed in the sole bedroom big enough to share, and the windows aren’t over-draughty. There’s plenty of food, courtesy of supermarkets never selling things in packages smaller than ‘giant’, according to James’s grumpy complaint. And there’s beer in the fridge, though James can’t drink due to his period of unconsciousness, so Robbie’s decided it can stay there. Hardly fair for him to have any if James can’t.

“I still think they shouldn’t have phoned you, but I’m glad you’re here,” James says, his gaze fixed on the flames. “Thank you for coming.”

“I’m glad they phoned me,” he says, bumping James’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be on your own. Not...” _Not when you’ve had an accident_ , he’s about to say, but the last thing he wants is to have James think he’s sorry for him.

But the conclusion James jumps to is worse. “For Christmas?” His tone’s verging on sarcastic suddenly. “You’re the one who ordered me to go away.”

Before Robbie can answer, James is pushing himself to his feet and limping to the kitchen. “Biscuits?”

“James.” With a sigh, he follows the bloke. “I only said that... I didn’t mean you to be on your own, man.” 

James is rummaging on the counter; a moment later, he turns and holds out something long and tubular to Robbie. “As promised. You might as well have this now.” Bloody hell — it’s a stick of rock. As promised, indeed.

Shaking his head, Robbie puts it back on the counter. “I’d rather those biscuits you offered.” There’s a lot more he’d like, too — to know why James is on his own, for one thing — but he’s not going to risk asking. Besides, he’s also beginning to realise how much of this situation he’s brought about himself. Yes, he told James to go away, without considering whether the bloke had anywhere to go or anyone to go with. And not only that: earlier in the year he told James that he needed a partner, as if that’s something his sergeant could just order from Amazon with the click of a button.

“I’m glad I’m here too,” he says as they resettle on the sofa. “This is nice.”

“Even without a Christmas tree and tinsel and all the other gaudy paraphernalia of the season?” James raises an eyebrow.

Robbie snorts faintly. “I’ll let you in on a secret, man. Can’t stand Christmas decorations. Not any more.”

“Ah.” James dips his head, staring into his mug. “I should have thought, sir. Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine. Been ten years now, hasn’t it? It’s just... well, she’d already put the decorations up. So ever since I can’t look at a Christmas tree without...” He shakes his head. 

James seems to force a smile. “In that case, I’m relieved it didn’t occur to me to go out and chop down a tree, sir.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.” A thought occurs to him. “Ah, it’s Robbie, man. Can’t get further from bein’ on-duty than this.”

This time, James’s smile is wider. “I suppose it would be a bit odd to share a bed with someone I address only as sir.”

“Not necessarily.” Robbie treats him to a full-blown smirk. “You haven’t forgotten I told you I started off in Vice?”

He gets a patented Hathaway smartarse grin in return. “I’m sure we could use your tie for bindings, sir. Unless you’d prefer it as a blindfold?”

“A gag, more like,” he retorts, and James laughs aloud.

* * *

Getting into bed with another man — and one who reports to him — has the potential for awkwardness, all right, though Robbie does his best to shove any embarrassment aside once he notices the little tics that show James feels even more ill at ease about it. Not, he’s pretty sure, because Robbie’s a bloke, but because he’s James’s boss.

So Robbie makes himself comfortable, lying back against the pillows on his side with his hands under his head, and chats amiably about Christmas Eves past, when the kids were small and excited about Santa Claus. “Getting them to go to sleep was a bloody nightmare, an’ even worse for Val if I was working late. She was furious with me one year — she’d just got Mark off an’ I came in an’ woke him up again. He came running downstairs shouting that he’d heard Santa come down the chimney.”

“And instead he saw you?” James has turned his head to the side and, in the low light from the hallway nightlight, Robbie can see the look of intrigue in the lad’s eyes. And this is nice, actually. Even aside from the need to get James to relax about sharing a bed with his boss, it’s not the worst way at all to spend Christmas Eve.

“No, but only because I hid behind the couch. I laughed, though. Y’know, Ho-Ho-Ho. Seemed to fool him. An’ then Val told him if he didn’t go back to bed Santa couldn’t leave the presents under the tree.”

“Did they wake you early?” The faint wistfulness in James’s voice tugs at Robbie. 

“Oh, bloody hell, did they! The worst was half-four in the morning, the year Lyn was seven. She was just startin’ to think Santa wasn’t real, an’ I think she was trying to catch us in the act. Egged her brother on something chronic that year. Anyway, Val sent them both back to bed. Told them there’d be no presents till tea-time if we saw hide or hair of them again before eight.”

“Sounds like your wife was good with them.” Again, there’s that hint. What the hell was James’s childhood like?

“Oh, she was a wonderful mam, was Val. Needed to be — I was never home enough. Not easy, in this job, an’ Morse didn’t have a family and didn’t understand — or, to be honest, he didn’t want to understand — what havin’ a family meant for me.”

“Mm.” Very non-committal, that. Was James’s dad not around much, then?

James yawns, loud and long. Robbie reaches out and brushes his hand lightly against the bloke’s arm. “G’night.”

“Goodnight, Robbie.” There’s a pause, and then James adds, in a low voice, “Thank you.”

“Ah, you’re welcome. Sleep well.”

* * *

He wakes to warmth and a sensation of being snuggled. 

It’s a few moments before he realises: he’s cuddling James. Or James is cuddling him. Either way, it’s lovely and he’s really in no hurry to move.

He shifts his head fractionally until he’s resting on what must be James’s shoulder — and then James starts. “Christ — sorry, sir.” 

James begins to pull away, and Robbie first mumbles, “No,” before gathering a bit more coherence. “You’re all right. Stay — if you don’t mind?”

The movement stops. “I don’t, but — you’re sure?”

Robbie sighs. “Reminds me of waking up wi’ Val when the kids were older. Mornings I wasn’t rushing out to work.”

A hand brushes over his arm, very lightly, and is then removed. “Merry Christmas, Robbie.”

“And to you, James.” He fumbles under the covers until he finds James’s hand, and squeezes it briefly. “What were you intending to do today?”

“I’d thought of going for a walk on the beach.” And, yeah, that’d hardly take all day. Some Christmas the bloke would’ve had. Robbie could almost consider the mugger did him a favour.

“The snow probably would’ve put paid to that, even without your ankle.” 

He feels James shrugging slightly against him. “I don’t mind snow.” Outside, the wind howls, and what sound like hailstones smash against the window. “That, on the other hand...”

“Yeah. Ah, well, you’ll just have to put up with me instead.”

“Whatever shall we do with our day, sir?” It’s the dry tone he’s very used to from Hathaway, that his sergeant sometimes uses to cover his genuine reaction.

“If there’s a pack o’ cards, I could teach you cribbage.” Robbie grins.

“For money?” Now there’s amusement in James’s voice.

“No chance!” But Robbie smiles. “For forfeits, maybe. Lose a game, answer a question?”

The body next to him goes completely still. “I don’t do questions.”

Damn it. Sometimes, casual conversation with James is a minefield. “Doesn’t have to be questions. Besides—” And maybe it’s time he confronted this defensiveness of James’s when it comes to anything related to his personal life. “We’ve known each other a long time, man. You know I’m discreet. An’ I wouldn’t ask you anything I know you don’t want to... y’know.”

“Sir.” So much James can convey with that one word; this time, a plea to drop the subject.

“Ah, not if you don’t want to, soft lad. Though you could just think of me like a confessor, eh? ‘Cept I won’t make you say ten Hail Marys an’ a decade of the rosary.”

“I could ask you questions.” And, yes, there’s a subtle threat there: _We both know you don’t like being asked about personal stuff either_.

James is right, of course, but if he’s asking he should be willing to give, also. “Course you can. Can’t guarantee I’d be willing to answer all of them, but I’d promise to try.” And be honest, he almost says, but that’d seem like a reminder of James’s past transgressions, and that’s far from his intention.

Abruptly, James moves, sitting up. “I’ll consider it. For now, I need the loo — and a smoke. I’ll put the kettle on on my way out.”

Robbie allows himself a wry smile. Progress — maybe. You can rarely tell with James.

* * *

Later, they’re slouched comfortably in front of a blazing fire again, stomachs full after a meal of sirloin steaks cooked to perfection, baked potatoes and green beans, followed by coffee and what James confessed had been an impulse purchase, a liqueur-infused chocolate cake. It’s not a traditional Christmas dinner by any means, but Robbie wouldn’t have swapped it. It’d been good, too, preparing it together, Robbie following James’s instructions as the lad had hobbled around the small kitchen.

He’d phoned both Lyn and Mark earlier this morning, too, to wish them and theirs a happy Christmas, and left a message for Laura, who’s spending the day with Peterson, of all people. It’s not escaped his notice that James hasn’t phoned anyone.

James is still under doctor’s orders not to drink, so they’ve both left the beer in the fridge and settled for water and soft drinks. Robbie hasn’t really missed the alcohol, though.

Outside, it’s still snowing; he looked out earlier and guessed that there’s about four or five inches at least on the roads, and more drifted on the driveway. If the ploughs don’t get out by tomorrow, he might have to do a bit of digging to get them to the main road. And it will be him; James’s ankle is still very painful, and Robbie’s not going to let him risk damaging it further. James has already said, and that’s a hell of an admission for him, that he’s glad Robbie’s here to do the driving tomorrow, because he wouldn’t be safe behind the wheel.

The Christmas special of some West Country-set drama ends, and James clicks off the telly. “Too many sheep and not enough beer,” is his verdict as he sets his iPod playing what sounds like an instrumental Christmas playlist. He glances back at Robbie. “You wanted to ask me questions.”

“Works both ways, man, like I said. But I did suggest card games or something like that...?”

James pulls a face. “Cut out the middle-man. Turn and turn about, and we both get...” He thinks for a moment. “Two refusals.”

“Okay.” Robbie keeps his voice casual, not wanting to betray his shock at what James is offering. Far more than he ever imagined he’d get from the lad, and he resolves not to use any of his own ‘get out of jail free cards’ if at all possible, and to try not to cause James to use his own. “You go first, then.”

James’s expression suggests he hadn’t expected that. He leans his head back, staring up at the ceiling, and after a pause asks, “What made you join the police?”

Unexpected, but a perfectly reasonable question, and one he’s surprised has never come up in conversation before. “I’d just left school after doin’ me A-levels — Yes, I did A-levels, in case you thought otherwise. Bs in maths an’ German, save you checking. Me dad wanted me to apply to a local engineering company. Get a job on the shop floor, learn a trade... I’d have a job for life, he said. Didn’t fancy that, though. Was down the job-centre one day an’ they had application forms for the police. Thought I’d give it a go. Everyone told me I’d never pass the exams, but I did. Spent four years in uniform, then applied to CID an’ got accepted second time around.”

James nods. He’s apparently been watching the fire, though Robbie knows he’s been listening intently. “I know you do it ironically, but I still wish you wouldn’t put yourself down like that. I was with people at university who were nowhere near as intelligent as you.”

While he’s always known he’s far from being as thick as some people he’s met would like to believe — Morse included — hearing that from James is still very flattering. He doesn’t comment, though. “What about you? I mean, I know you needed a career-change,” he adds, to make clear that he’s not asking about the seminary. “Why the police, instead of — I dunno, the civil service or MI5?”

James grins at this reference to their conversation a year or so ago. “I did apply to the Civil Service, actually. I knew it would be a while before I got an answer, and then I happened to see there was a University public debate on the psychology of criminality. One of the participants was, believe it or not, a then Detective Superintendent Jean Innocent. So I suppose you could say that it’s all Innocent’s fault. I talked to her after the debate, and she encouraged me to apply for the fast-track scheme. And the rest,” James concludes in his deadpan drawl, “is history.”

Robbie skips the obvious comeback. “Ah, well, I know who to thank, then.” He heads to the kitchen for more drinks and the chocolate biscuits he saw in the fridge earlier. “Your turn.”

James’s next question is also easy — how had he ended up as Morse’s bagman? — and leads naturally to one Robbie’s wondered about occasionally over the years. “Why’d you ask Innocent if you could work with me? Grainger’s a DCI now.”

“Oh, the marvels I missed out on.” The tone’s dry as dust; the meaning behind it’s anything but. “It’s simple. You treated me with respect. I... hadn’t really experienced that until then.”

Promotion really had gone to Chas Knox’s head, hadn’t it? Robbie’s not complaining; Grainger’s loss really was his gain. “Wasn’t aware I’d done anything out of the ordinary, but I’m glad if that had anything to do with it. Your turn.”

“All right, then.” James looks straight at him. “Why did you say yes?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Robbie shrugs. “Could say better the devil you know — but it wasn’t that. We made a good team on that case. Me gut just told me we’d work well together. An’ we have done.” He could leave it there but, after the monumental mistake he’s made with James by ordering him to go away, he decides it’s important to say more. “It’s not just been work, though. You’ve become a good mate. And... well, that matters. Especially now.” It’s not that he didn’t have friends before, or doesn’t still have them now — it’s just that most of the friends he had were friends of his and Val’s, and it’s never the same once you’re just one half of a former couple. And for a long time he hadn’t felt able to spend time with people he was used to being with as part of a couple.

“I’m glad.” There’s pure sincerity in James’s voice. 

Robbie keeps it relatively undemanding by asking questions he’s fairly sure won’t be controversial: why Cambridge rather than Oxford, how come James took up rowing, had he ever thought of playing guitar professionally. James’s questions are equally safe: about cases he knew Robbie had been involved with, mostly. 

Until James asks, his tentative tone alerting Robbie that they were heading into potentially difficult territory, “How did you know that Mrs Lewis was the one? You can refuse to answer,” he adds immediately, as if fearing that Robbie’ll jump down his throat.

“Nah, I’ll answer.” He takes a deep breath, considering. “It’s hard to explain. I think you just _know_ , an’ that’s all there is to it.” But James, of course — well, so far as Robbie knows — has never _just known_. “We’d been goin’ out about a year, an’ I realised I’d not even looked at another woman for ages. And I thought, if she was ever tempted to look at another bloke because I’d not made clear what she meant to me...” He smiles in fond memory. “Didn’t propose immediately — we were both still very young at the time. But I did tell her she was the only one for me.”

The music on the iPod changes then, and Robbie stills. Carol of the Bells. “That was one of Val’s favourites.”

James frowns. “Should I skip?”

He catches James’s arm to stop him. “No! No, it’s nice hearin’ it. Remembering.”

“Okay.” James settles back again, and somehow they’ve managed to shift closer together, so that their shoulders are brushing. “Your turn, Robbie.”

He hopes he’s right in interpreting James’s move onto more personal territory with his last question as permission to do the same. “You mentioned your mother yesterday —that’s the first time since I’ve known you. Is she... still around?”

James goes very still, and his fingers clench around his Coke can. Robbie refrains from reminding him that he can decline to answer; James knows. Finally, staring into the fire again, James does speak. “She... left. My father was... difficult to live with.”

Difficult how? Alcohol? Anger issues? Violence? And how old was James? But he won’t push. He just waits; it’s a strategy that’s worked in the past.

“Whatever you’re thinking... all of the above.” James’s tone is dry, detached. He could be talking about one of their cases. “And, since I know you’re wondering, I was ten.”

So the woman had just walked out, leaving little James within reach of a child abuser, with only the protection of a parent who probably didn’t have the presence of mind to notice, or even care, that his son could be in danger. It’s taking a lot of self-control for Robbie not to react.

“I found out years later that leaving me behind was the price for her being allowed to leave. Apparently, she was afraid he might end up killing her one day.”

“And she wasn’t afraid he might end up killing you?” That comes spilling out; he can’t help himself.

James shrugs. “He barely noticed me most of the time. I was safe enough. And, since I know you’ve wondered, I was safe from the other danger at Crevecoeur too. The marquess was more interested in my mind — ironically enough, he’s the one who encouraged me to apply for the scholarship to public school.”

Robbie’s barely daring to breathe. He never imagined James would disclose this much, even though he’d certainly hoped the lad would trust him enough to let him in a little bit. But James is wound so tightly he could snap at any moment. 

“One time bein’ a smartarse worked in your favour, then?” Robbie comments, allowing a familiar mocking note to creep into his voice. And it works; he gets a crooked smile of acknowledgement. 

“She’s dead now,” James adds, his voice more natural now. “I only found out years later — after my father died, when I was twenty, I tried to find her, but she’d died in a car accident a few years earlier.”

All alone in the world, then — not that he’d be much better off if he did have either parent living. And Robbie’d made him go away to spend a solitary Christmas among strangers.

He bumps James’s shoulder with his. “Your turn. Reckon you deserve a double go after that.”

James doesn’t answer straight away. He leans his head back against the sofa-back again, this time turning to look at Robbie. And, for a long while, he just looks. Robbie finds himself mirroring James’s position after a bit. It should feel strange, their faces just inches apart, but it’s oddly nice.

Finally, James murmurs, “This... probably counts as a double turn.” And he shifts closer to Robbie, a strange but somehow hopeful look in his eyes; shifts closer still until their lips touch.

This is a question? But, Robbie realises, it is. The kiss is tentative, as if he’s expecting Robbie to exercise his right of refusal at any moment. And he could, except that he’s vowed not to use it unless absolutely necessary. Avoiding this... isn’t a necessity.

He shifts closer himself, bringing up one hand to curve around the back of the lad’s head and bring him nearer still, to deepen the kiss and show he’s not going to say no.

At the same time, though, his head’s whirling. James kissing him — and, by the look in the bloke’s eyes as he’d moved in, this isn’t an idle fancy. James wants this — wants him. Wants him enough to take the risk of rejection.

Which, of course, puts a heavy responsibility on Robbie. He’s kissed the man back. How far is he willing to go from here? Because, if he knows James, the lad’s not looking for a Christmas fling. Doesn’t do flings, does he?

Oh, Christ. _How did you know Mrs Lewis was the one?_ This is why James was asking. And, of course, he’d also asked why Robbie’d agreed to take him on.

He combs his fingers lightly through James’s hair as the kiss ends and the bloke draws back, looking wary. And that’s not an expression Robbie wants to see on his bonny lad’s face, now or ever again in the context of their personal relationship. There are other things he’s aware of, too: how he’d felt when he’d thought James could be walking away from their partnership a year or so ago; the way his heart had pounded when he’d realised that the bloke was facing down an armed terrorist only a couple of months ago — and then, only yesterday, the way he’d panicked when he’d got the call from PC Weare telling him James had been in an accident.

As Morse had told him several times over the years, he really is slow to catch on sometimes.

He reaches for James, sliding his arm around the man’s shoulders. “Said you were for me, didn’t I? Right when we first met. Reckon that’s points for me.”

James, after a moment’s hesitation in which he seems to be trying to take in that he’s allowed, drops his head to Robbie’s shoulder. “But you did need a bit of a steer in the right direction. So _I_ reckon that’s points for _me_.”

“Call it a draw,” Robbie suggests.

“I’ll call it anything you like, as long as I get to kiss you again. And... sleep in your bed sometimes when we’re back in Oxford?”

“I’ll even let you keep some of your stuff at mine,” Robbie concedes, with great generosity. “Just as long as you keep up with your duties, sergeant.”

“Duties?”

“Kissing. And other stuff, as required. On demand. And, of course, a really good bagman doesn’t need to be asked.”

“I apologise for being remiss, sir,” James murmurs, and prevents any reply from Robbie by kissing him again.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> In S803, _Beyond Good and Evil_ , James recognises a photograph and identifies it as Ringstead Bay in Dorset, saying that he's been there. He just forgot to mention that he also played hero and sprained his ankle during his visit!
> 
> And for a hilarious sequel to this story, check out Divingforstones' [In Flagrante Delicto](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3148568).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In Flagrante Delicto](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3148568) by [divingforstones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/divingforstones/pseuds/divingforstones)




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